


Fictober 2020

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Fictobers [6]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Banter, F/M, First Kiss, Friendship, Jealousy, Smut, Surveillance, biscuits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: A collection of drabbles for Fictober 2020 aka Striketober.I’m going to post a drabble a day, as chapters collected in this single work. This is a collection of random little moments - sometimes they’re together, sometimes not, sometimes it doesn’t matter, hence the / and & tags above.It’ll be mostly Strike and Robin, but others of our favourite characters may drop in.The prompt list can be foundhere.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert & Cormoran Strike, Lucy & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott & Sam Barclay, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Fictobers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524044
Comments: 564
Kudos: 197
Collections: Striketober | Cormoran Strike Fictober 2020





	1. “Is that even possible?”

“Is that even possible?”

“All things are possible, Robin,” he teases.

“Well, that’s not true.”

“How so?”

She waves a hand. “Cats can’t fly. Waterfalls don’t flow upwards. Cormoran Strike never leaves any biscuits. These are immutable laws of nature.”

Strike fakes outrage. “Go and look in the tin.”

Confident of winning, she marches out to the main office. When she returns, she’s giggling helplessly.

“Half a custard cream doesn’t count!”

“I didn’t eat the last biscuit. Ergo I don’t have to go shopping.”

“You ate the last _whole_ biscuit.”

He grins, knowing he’s defeated, and reaches for his wallet.


	2. “Want some company?”

“Want some company?”

Strike grunts and glowers at his pint.

It’s not a no. Robin unwinds her scarf, fetches herself a drink, sits down.

Silence stretches.

“Not every case is solved to our satisfaction. You know that.”

He scowls. “But we were so close.”

“Yup. And we will be again.” She sips her wine, watches him over the rim of her glass.

Strike’s sigh seems to come from the depths of his soul. “I know.”

She risks a hand on his arm; a quick squeeze, there and gone. Pink-cheeked, she looks away.

He straightens up. It’s fractionally less awful now.


	3. “It sounded better in my head.”

“It sounded better in my head.”

“I hope so. It sounded bloody awful out of your mouth.”

Strike flushes. He’s royally screwed this up. “I just meant—”

“—that he’s an idiot for wanting to go out with me?”

“No, that he’s an idiot _and_ he wants to go out with you.”

Robin glares. “And the difference is?”

Strike’s jaw works, but no sound comes out. He glances helplessly around their office that had been so companionable until Robin’s phone pinged.

“I— You could do better.”

She snorts. “They’re hardly queueing up.”

Strike sighs. That may be partly - entirely - his fault.


	4. “Where does it hurt?”

“Where does it hurt?”

Robin stiffens. She tries not to ask Strike about his leg, and here’s a boy in the park just blurting it as they rest on a bench. Strike’s trousers have ridden up, revealing his metal ankle.

“Here,” he says to Robin’s surprise, pointing. But the boy stares at his ankle.

“Not there?” he asks.

“Nope.” Strike grins. “You can kick it if you like.”

The lad does so, eliciting a shriek of apology from his mother. Strike smiles, unperturbed. “I invited him to.”

Robin suppresses a fond smile as the kid is ushered away.

“What?”

“Nothing.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated to hobbeshalftail3469 - good Lord, woman, it was hard to squash that idea into 100 words, but thank you! 😂😍


	5. “Don’t move.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By no means the only smutty one...

“Don’t move.”

Strike trembles, clutching her hips, pressing her thighs down onto his. Robin resists the urge to sink her fingernails into his shoulders. It’s been too long.

“If you move, I’ll come.”

She smiles, somewhat triumphant. She knows he wants her, but still. Perhaps she hadn’t needed to draw things out this much, wind him so tight—

“Then I will too.”

He groans, shuddering. “Do you want this to be over in half a minute?”

“Maybe.” She squeezes, and he gasps.

“Robin—”

“Cormoran. Let go...”

She raises herself, slides down again, and the _pleasure_...

“ _Fuck_ , Robin—”

They dissolve together.


	6. “Is it working?”

“Is it working?”

“Hm?”

Pressed against the wall opposite the theatre, Strike’s face buried in her neck, his lips almost brushing her skin, her senses full of spice and smoke and musk, Robin has forgotten their mark entirely.

“Is he still looking?”

It’s her imagination that he sounds hoarse. Blinking, Robin peeps over his shoulder, goosebumps washing across her, trying not to shiver.

“Er, no. He’s gone.”

Strike steps back at once. “Great. Er, sorry.”

Robin swallows. Her knees are wobbly, her spine liquid. “It’s fine.”

“Have to think on your feet sometimes.” He grins. “Foot.”

She chuckles weakly. “Yeah.”


	7. “Is something bothering you?”

“Is something bothering you?”

Strike hesitates, then adds, “Or someone?” He’s not forgiven himself for not spotting Morris’ behaviour sooner.

Robin sighs and looks at him over her second glass of wine, calculating.

“Maybe,” she says quietly.

He hesitates again. “Want to tell me who?”

She takes a quick gulp. “Okay. You.”

Strike recoils as though struck, horrified. What has he done that—?

Robin’s hand finds his arm, reassuring. “Not like that.”

“Like what, then?” His voice is hoarse.

“Well, the opposite,” she murmurs. “It’s like you don’t even notice I’m a woman.”

He swallows. “Oh, I notice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”


	8. “I’m scared.”

“I’m scared.”

Robin’s voice is low, but she knows he’s heard. His silence is because he hadn't expected an answer.

“What of?” he asks eventually, dipping his hand back into the huge bag of Doritos they’re sharing. The house they’re watching is dark, silent.

“He might not feel the same.”

Barclay snorts and stuffs crisps into his mouth. “He does.”

Robin pulls her coat tighter. The Land Rover is draughty.

“He might not.”

“I’m tellin’ ye, he does.”

Robin takes a handful of crisps. Another pause.

“I might not be ready.”

“Aye, well. Only you can answer that.”

She sighs.


	9. “I have to do this.”

“I have to do this.”

“You don’t.” Strike’s voice is quiet. “But if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

His finger hovers over the play button. Robin bites her lip. “And if it is—” she swallows “—rape, then...?”

“We stop the tape and hand it straight over to the Met.”

Robin grits her teeth. They shouldn’t even be here. But the husband has managed to convince the police, twice, that his wife “just likes it rough”. Robin wants to see him convicted.

“I’m ready.”

“Sure?”

Her eyes flick to his, and she sees trust, respect.

“Yup.”

Strike presses play.  
  



	10. “Give me five minutes.”

“Give me five minutes.”

Strike bends over his file, trying to focus. It’s late, almost time for their Friday Tottenham trip.

Robin twirls in her chair. She’s in full Bobbi getup - fishnets, lip ring, black hair and all. She’s just hung up a call to their mark.

“Think I sounded okay?”

 _Fuck, yeah._ Strike grunts noncommittally.

“I was aiming for flirty and a bit dim.”

“You were fine.” He’s ashamed of how sexy it was.

She eyes him; he blushes. _Good_. He really needs his blood to be...anywhere other than where it currently is.

“You ready?”

“Couple more minutes.”


	11. “Is everything okay?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Strike knows he sounds combative, but for fuck’s sake. Can’t he enjoy a curry and some beers with the Herberts without Ilsa’s grilling? He blows smoke across the dark patio. Behind them in the kitchen, Nick washes up.

“Robin seeing Luke again tonight?”

He grunts.

“That’s their third date, right?”

Strike scowls. Everyone knows what happens on the third date. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

Why won’t she just leave it? Strike smokes and glowers. Silence stretches.

“I’ll tell Nick to open the whisky.” Ilsa heads back inside.


	12. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Robin casts him a sideways glance through slightly squinted eyes.

“I’m not.” Strike grins wickedly. “Past evidence is on my side. I could cure your headache that way too. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I was thinking a massage. Your shoulders are tense.” He flexes his big hands, and Robin can feel her aching muscles longing for his sure touch.

“Okay, I’ll let you try for ten minutes,” she says graciously, teasing, rolling onto her stomach as his fingers find her neck.

“And then what?”

She just grins, and he laughs. “Deal.”  
  



	13. “Who told you that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, it’s Barclay again 😂❤️

“Who told you that?”

Barclay hesitates. Strike is glaring at him, and he’s suddenly glad Robin’s not here to glare too.

“Er, no-one. I jus’ assumed.”

“On what basis?”

Barclay waves vaguely around the office. “Just... Since Robin’s birthday... Ye’ve both been...”

The glare is now a scowl. “What?”

Barclay shrugs. “Come on, man. You know. Pally.”

“We’re friends.”

“Okay, more than pally. Coupley.”

He hadn’t thought the temperature could drop any further. _Now who can’t read the room?_

“I jus’ thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry I said anythin’.” He hurriedly changes the subject back to the case.


	14. “What are you smiling about?”

“What are you smiling about?”

Barclay straightens his face. “Nothin’.”

Robin casts him a suspicious look, but says no more. That in itself is evidence; she doesn’t want to know.

The Scot pulls his coat back on and heads to the door.

He’s a detective too. Do they really think he doesn’t notice how close Strike stands to Robin nowadays? That she just straightened his collar for him before he left? That sometimes Strike smells of Robin’s distinctive new perfume even when she’s not in the room?

Not his business. Out of sight, grinning now, Barclay clatters down the stairs.


	15. “Don’t come in.”

“Don’t come in.”

It’s a quiet plea, muttered into her ear. Robin swallows a moan. She’s lying across their desk with Strike over her, _inside_ her, while in the outer office Pat faffs, retrieving whatever she’d forgotten. She’d only been gone ten minutes.

They’re on the brink. Robin shudders, squeezing him, and Strike gasps and thrusts helplessly. Biting her lip, Robin dissolves; she knows from his whispered curse that he can feel her orgasm rippling through her.

He buries his face against her collarbone and grunts, once, as he follows. By the time Pat leaves again, they’re slumped, blissed out.  
  



	16. “What’s in it for me?”

“What’s in it for me?”

Strike raises an eyebrow at his middle nephew. “Turning thirteen has made you a crafty bugger,” he muses, grinning reluctantly.

He thinks. “Okay, a fiver not to tell your mum I let you drive the BMW.” He doesn’t feel too guilty. The car park had been deserted and Jack had begged. Strike remembers longing to learn to drive.

Jack grins. “A tenner.”

“Don’t push it.”

“A tenner and I won’t tell her about the car or that I saw you snogging Robin.”

Strike knows he’s blushing; he’s caught. Muttering darkly, he pulls out his wallet.


	17. “I’ll drive you there.”

“I’ll drive you there.”

“Cormoran, it’s fine. I can go by myself.”

“I want to.”

He tries not to give away how closely he’s watching her across their shared desk. She says she’s fine; it’s a small case, their evidence is pretty clear-cut. Ilsa isn’t anticipating much cross-questioning.

Still. He strongly suspects she hasn’t given evidence in court since... Well.

She’s hesitating. He takes a chance.

“Let me,” he says softly. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”

“You do.”

“And so will you, when you’ve been to court as many times as I have.”

She nods slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”


	18. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Strike shrugs helplessly, his arms still around her. “Yes, but—”

Still reeling from the kiss, lips grazed by stubble, Robin watches him. She’d been so sure. She hadn’t anticipated _but_.

“But what?” She draws back. Has she got this very wrong?

His arms tighten, anchoring her to him.

“I thought it would be—”

“What?”

“Well, that I’d ask you out. Dinner. Candlelight. A proper first kiss.”

She giggles. “Not a sudden snog as I’m heading out on surveillance and you’ve got an afternoon of interviews?”

“Yeah.”

Her smile softens. “But it’s okay?”

He grins. “Yeah.”


	19. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Strike affects outrage. “I’m not!”

“Nobody else uses my stapler except you. Pat has her own.”

“Since when is it your stapler?”

Robin lifts her chin. “Since I bought it with my own money after you lost the last two. Do you eat them?”

He grins. “I’m surprised you haven’t labelled it.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

His eyes darken; he leans across their desk. “Maybe I want to tempt you.”

Robin licks her lips, sees him shudder. “Go on, then.”

“Ahem!” Pat is in the doorway with a cheque to sign. Flushing, the detectives return to work.


	20. “Is this really necessary?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Robin grins at his grumbling and straightens his tie. “It’s for Ilsa and Nick.”

“It’s just another bloody anniversary,” Strike mutters. “Fifteen isn’t even a thing.”

“They’ve been through a lot lately.” She turns away to check her hair in the mirror.

“I know.”

He watches her, cream and gold and gorgeous, the navy dress hugging her hips, Narciso hanging in the air. Maybe it is worth it.

“C’mere.” But she wriggles out of his grasp, chuckling.

“No, you don’t, mister. But behave yourself, and I’ll make it worth your while later.”

Strike grins wickedly. “Deal.”


	21. “Look away.”

“Look away.”

Before he’s realised what she’s about to do, Robin has stripped her soaking shirt off over her head. Strike gets the briefest glimpse of coral lace, of freckles, before he hurriedly spins his chair to face the incident wall behind him. Cheeks flaming, he tries to focus on the timeline.

“Sorry,” she calls, rummaging in her bag of spare clothes. “I can’t stay cold all afternoon.”

“It’s fine,” he manages, perusing dates, ignoring the whisper of material.

“All decent.”

He turns slowly back, and she’s fully dressed. Normality has returned.

“Er, tea?” He makes his escape, too late.


	22. “Does this help?”

“Does this help?”

Robin groans as he teases her nipple through her blouse. Strike grins wickedly.

“No, that makes it worse,” she manages. What had possessed her to lean against his side of the desk and confess how horny she feels today?

He’d been delighted. Now he rucks up her skirt, tugs her knickers aside to stroke her clit. Panting, Robin rocks, desperate for more. Her cheeks are scarlet. She can hear Pat typing, but she can’t stop.

His thumbs work in tandem, driving her on.

“Come for me,” Strike urges, and her body obeys.

He sits back, smug. “Better?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one may have a longer version already - watch this space! 😜
> 
> Real Life™️ swamped me and I’m so behind on replying to comments and reading. Apologies. I will catch up!


	23. “Are you warm enough?”

“Are you warm enough?”

Robin nods sleepily. “I am, actually. Are you?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Silence descends again.

“Been a long time since we slept in the Land Rover,” Robin says presently.

“Yeah. Not since Barrow.”

This new silence is reflective, both lost in thought. They’ve come so far since then, both in terms of the size and security of the agency, but also their new-found friendship. It’s hard to remember, now, how distant they had once been.

Robin wriggles lower, pulling her blanket tighter. Strike is taking first watch.

“Good night, Strike,” she mumbles.

He smiles softly. “Good night.”


	24. “What time is it?”

“What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock at your sister’s, as well you know.”

Strike grins. “Just checking.”

Robin arches an eyebrow. “Don’t think I don’t know that you do that.”

“Do what?” He’s the picture of innocence.

“Pretend you don’t remember what time a thing is, so you can turn up late and miss half of it.”

Strike is concentrating hard on his monitor suddenly. “Hm?”

Robin chuckles. “Do you also think I don’t know when you’re deflecting?”

He gives up. “You’re too bloody good at this psychology business, Ellacott.”

“I’m just good at reading you.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”


	25. “How long was I asleep?”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long.” Strike’s smile is gentle.

Robin blinks, confused. Why is he working at Pat’s desk? And why is she covered up with a blanket? She’d only laid her head down on the arm of the sofa for a moment.

She peers at her watch, and rubs her eyes comically. “It’s seven o’clock!” She’s been asleep three hours. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Strike shrugs. “Seemed mean.”

“You could have gone upstairs.”

He shrugs again, colour stealing across his cheeks. “I know.”

Robin imagines waking to a cold, empty office, and is glad he hadn’t.


	26. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Hm?” Strike pauses in the act of lifting Robin’s scarf from its drape over his coat. The stand is often full, these days, what with Pat’s coat and sometimes Barclay’s or Hutchins’, and Robin has started hanging her things on his peg sometimes. When she does, his collar smells faintly of her perfume for hours afterwards.

“Hanging my scarf there. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. “Um, I mean, it’s fine.” He can see Pat is smirking a little, and carefully doesn’t look at her.

“Okay.” Robin smiles softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this idea to hobbeshalftail3469. I knew I wanted it to be something Robin feared would be annoying but Strike secretly likes, but I couldn’t find the idea that made me do the flappy hands. Hobbes could ❤️


	27. “I can’t reach it.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Go along that branch a bit.”

Strike is so focused, he only notices Robin when she shrieks behind him.

“What’s he doing up there?”

Jack inches along cautiously.

“Rescuing his kite, what does it look like?”

“I don’t think Lucy would approve.” Robin’s hand is over her mouth.

“Lucy won’t know.”

“How did he get up there?”

“I lifted, then he climbed.” Strike looks down at her. “I did this all the time as a kid.”

“Well, yeah, me too, but...”

He grins. “Scary, I know. But it’s good for him.”

Jack waves the kite, triumphant.


	28. “Don’t freak out.”

“Don’t freak out.”

“Oh, God, what?” Robin’s heart lurches. She clutches the phone to her ear.

“It’s fine, honestly,” Strike says reassuringly. “It’s only a sprain.”

“What is?”

“Jack’s arm. X-ray came back fine. Just needs a support bandage.”

Robin closes her eyes. “What were you two doing this time? Actually, I don’t want to know. Leave me out of this.”

There’s a small pause. “Er, well, actually...”

A smile creeps across her face. “What?”

“Um. Could you ring Lucy? She won’t yell at you.”

Robin chuckles. “You’re incorrigible, the pair of you.”

“I know.” She can hear his grin.


	29. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“Well, technically _I_ didn’t. I got Robin to do it.”

Lucy glares at him. “That’s not better.”

A smile pulls at Strike’s mouth. “It is. I bet you let her explain before you shouted.”

Lucy rolls her eyes.

Her brother tries for reason. “Come on, Luce. We did all this stuff as kids.”

“No, you did. I was the cautious one.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? Maybe he takes after me.”

Her smile is soft. “He really does. Just...be careful with him, hey? Don’t break him.”

Strike nods. “I won’t. Promise.”


	30. “That doesn’t count.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“I think Pat might disagree.”

Strike shrugs. “She won’t have noticed.”

Robin stretches, naked and relaxed next to him, enjoying the way his eyes follow her. “She’s more observant than you realise. And Sam nearly caught us again.”

Strike rolls to wrap an arm around her, his lips teasing goosebumps from warm skin. He can think of many things he’d rather be doing than counting the ways their staff have nearly caught them in compromising positions. Getting into another, for a start.

Robin hums and arches beneath him. “We have to tell them.”

“Mm-hm.” He’s stopped listening.


	31. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

Barclay looks quizzically at Strike, standing in the outer office with an air of forced casualness. Pink-cheeked, Robin fiddles with the kettle.

“I— _We_ wanted to talk to all of you,” Strike says, waving an arm that encompasses Pat at her desk and Hutchins on the sofa.

“Okaaaay.” The Scot leans on the wall.

“We— That is, Robin and I—” Strike curses his blush. “We’re together. Dating.”

Silence.

“I came all th’ way back for that?” Barclay demands. “Geez. Tell us somethin’ we dinnae ken!”

Pat is already typing again, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! Yay Fictober, thank you all for reading along and for the kudos and comments ❤️


End file.
